KING OF FRANCE
DUKE OF FLORENCE
BERTRAM – Count of Rousillon
LAFEU – an old lord
PAROLLES – a follower of BERTRAM
Several young French lords – that serve with BERTRAM in the Florentine war
Steward; clown; a page – servants to the COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON
COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON – Mother to BERTRAM
HELENA – a gentlewoman protected by the COUNTESS
An old widow of Florence
DIANA – daughter to the widow
VIOLENTA, MARIANA – Neighbors and friends to the widow
Lords – attending on the KING
Officers, Soldiers – French and Florentine
PLAY
Partly in France, and partly in Tuscany.
ACT I
Scene i: Rousillon. A room in the Countess’ palace.
Scene ii: Paris. A room in the King’s palace.
Scene iii: Rousillon. A room in the palace.
ACT II
Scene i: Paris. a room in the King’s palace.
Scene ii: Rousillon. A room in the Countess’ palace.
Scene iii: Paris. a room in the King’s palace.
Scene iv: The same. Another room in the same.
Scene v: Another room in the same.
ACT III
Scene i: Florence. A room in the Duke’s palace.
Scene ii: Rousillon. A room in the Countess’ palace.
Scene iii: Florence. Before the Duke’s palace.
Scene iv: Rousillon. A scene in the Countess’ palace.
Scene v: Without the walls of Florence.
Scene vi: Camp before Florence.
Scene vii: Florence. A room in the widow’s house.
ACT IV
Scene i: Without the Florentine camp.
Scene ii: Florence. A room in the widow’s house.
Scene iii: The Florentine camp.
Scene iv: Florence. A room in the widow’s house.
Scene v: Rousillon. A room in the Countess’ palace.
ACT V
Scene i: Marseilles. A street.
Scene ii: Rousillon. The inner court of the Countess’ palace.
Scene iii: The same. A room in the Countess’ palace.
Act I: Scene i
HELENA: O, were that all! – I think not on my father;
And these great tears grace his remembrance more
Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
I have forgot him; my imagination
Carries no favour in ‘t but Bertram’s.
I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. ‘Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart’s table, – heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:
But now he is gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must santify his relics. Who comes here?
One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;
And yet I know him a notorious liar,
Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;
Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him
That they take place when virtue’s steely bones
Look bleak i’ the cold wind: withal, full oft we see
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
